Snowdrops
by Alakata
Summary: AU LVHP One little mistake and Harry is born two years too early. Abandoned by a father he never knew, Harry grows up in Knockturn Alley with his sick mum and little to his name. When Lily's illness becomes fatal, he is willing to do anything to save her.


**DISCLAIMER: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Not even this disclaimer belongs to me =[

**BETA: **the amazing Kamitori.

**Pairing: **Voldemort/Harry, but not until much, much later.

**Blanket warnings, just in case: **SLASH. Some het, too. Swearing. Disturbing themes. Blood, gore, references to violence and torture. Some emotional & physical abuse (not necessarily to Harry), angst, character death, the whole shebang. References to sex. References to drugs (recreational potion use, etc). Crime. Various immoral actions. If I think of anything else that might come up, I'll update this.

**Summary: **AU LVHP One little mistake and Harry is born two years too early. Abandoned by a father he never knew, Harry grows up in Knockturn Alley with his sick mum and little to his name. When Lily's illness becomes fatal, he is willing to do anything to save her.

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><p><strong>Snowdrops by Kenneth Slessor<strong>

_The Snowdrop Girl in fields of snowdrops walks,_

_Whiter than foam, deeper than waters flowing,_

_Flakes of wild milk gone blowing,_

_Snowing on cloudy stalks._

_The Snowdrop Girl goes picking flowers of snow,_

_Blossoms of darkness bubbling into dreams,_

_In a strange country, by the shadowy streams_

_Where the cruel petals of the Coke-tree grow._

_From the smoke and the fume of the backyard room,_

_Where poverty sits and gloats,_

_On runaway feet from a dirty street_

_To a field of snow she floats;_

_And tickets to Hell have a curious smell_

_And a dangerous crystal whiff,_

_Where men hawk Death in a snowdrops's breath_

_At a couple of shillings a sniff._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Disappointment, Parent of Despair<strong>

**June 1989, 210E Knockturn Square**

When the letter arrives, it is exactly what he had anticipated and nothing like he had hoped for.

_Dear Mr Evans,_

_I regret to inform you that I am unable to offer you a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I have the utmost sympathy for your situation, but due to the unusually high number of scholarship students already enrolled the school simply does not have the funds to offer you a scholarship at this time. If you will permit me to suggest, you might try seeking an apprenticeship or a position at a trade school; there is, after all, always more than one path to learning. One must only ever choose which to take.  
><em>

_If I might ask a personal favour despite your disappointment, please pass my regards on to your mother. She was one of our most talented pupils, and I was sorry to read of her affliction. I wish her the swiftest of recoveries._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Headmaster Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_

Harry glances at his mother over the top of the parchment. She sits at the other side of the kitchen table, hands clasped in front of her to disguise the tremble she despises more than almost anything, watching him. Her face, wan in the dim light of the candle, is etched with a myriad little lines of concern. Not for herself – he realised long ago that she never worries enough about herself – but concern that he will take this badly, because she knew from the start that this would be Dumbledore's answer.

She had told Harry as much, back when he first dreamed the idea up. _If he let your werewolf friend in, he might let me in as well, _he had argued, and she told him it wasn't the same thing at all. He hadn't wanted to believe her.

As the parchment slips from his fingers and drifts gently to a rest beside the candle, Harry's mouth twists bitterly. He's going to take it badly all right. "Professor Dumbledore wishes you the_ swiftest of recoveries,_" he snarls.

"Harry-"

"What a flobberworm. As if he doesn't know!"

Lily sighs, and reaches for his hands across the table. He bites his lip in frustration, wants to scream and rage at the unfairness of it all, but allows the gesture to calm him. The only thing his fury is likely to do is give her another headache, and he has already caused her enough pain to last a lifetime. Her pale, calloused hands are unnaturally cold against his skin, and guilt makes him shiver.

"He could help us, if he wanted to," he says quietly. "He just... won't."

"It's not his fault. He probably gets letters like yours all the time, asking him for funding for this or that... Harry, he can't do everything. For all he knows you could have been lying. And even if you weren't, the chances that you'll be able to discover something new are so slim that-"

He refuses to listen to this.

"I will find a way," he promises, so vehemently that his mother flinches a little. "I'll do anything. I don't care what. I promise you I'll find a way."

"And if it's not worth the cost?" she asks softly. Her gentle hands tighten around his. Her green eyes, identical to his own save for the dark film of weariness that clouds them, scrutinize him; he doesn't know what she's looking for, and he looks down, away, anywhere but at her face. The table's scratches and stains are easier to watch than her cynical resignation to her fate.

"It will be," he whispers eventually, and pulls his hands out of her grasp. The chair rasps against the wooden floor as he stands. "I- should go check on Hedwig. Her dressings will need changed."

"You gave her a name?" Her eyes close in sorrow or exasperation. He can't tell from her tone, a tremulous mix of both. "We can't afford to keep her."

"We wouldn't have to buy much, Mum, I promise. She can share my food. Just until she can hunt for herself."

"She might not even make it."

"She will. She's getting better already."

She will pull through. She _has _to. If he can't even save an owl, what chance does he have of saving Lily?

As he turns away from his mother to go upstairs, he hears her sigh. "Hedwig. After St Mungo's wife?"

He turns his head, smiles at her over his shoulder as his foot falls on the first step of the rickety stairwell that leads to his attic. "Yeah."

"She always was your favourite," Lily says, and in the fond lilt of her voice he hears an echo of happier times, the halcyon days before any of this happened, before she got sick, before her savings ran out. Days when he wasn't the only one who knew how to hope. "We'll see what it's like, okay? Hedwig can stay for now. I can do that much."

"Thank you." He smiles again, a small, tired smile, and heads upstairs into the darkness. He pretends not to hear her whispered '_I wish I could do more.'_

Through the grey half-light he can just about make out the silhouette of his bedside table and edges carefully towards it, moving at a shuffle to avoid stumbling into something. Once he feels the smooth wood of the table under his hands he leans forwards and snaps his fingers over the space where his candle should be, if he hasn't misjudged the distance.

Nothing happens. His lips draw into a scowl, and he repeats the gesture. This time, a feeble flame flickers into life, spitting and sputtering in protest.

_Everlasting Candles_... Good for at least six months or your money back. He wonders what the chances of getting their money back would be if he asked. Slim, no doubt.

He sighs, lifts the candle and takes it over to his chest of drawers, where Hedwig lies nestled in the top drawer, wrapped in his oldest robe. She stirs fitfully in her makeshift nest when he checks her dressings, but doesn't awaken. His mother's painkillers, watered down though they probably are, are strong enough to see to that. He hovers for a moment, staring down at her, tempted to reach out and stroke the white feathers. He refrains.

Best to let her sleep.

Instead he turns back to his desk. There isn't much on it. A few books; his quill and inkwell; a tiny figurine of a sphinx, currently snoozing away and a bundle of parchment. Above it, his Arrows poster, currently blank; the team evidently bored enough to fly off the edge in search of somewhere more interesting. And on the corner, weighed down against the summer breeze by his copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard, _the fruit of a month of research: the articles he cuts out from the copies of the _Prophet _Mrs Fletcher from the floor below sometimes lends them.

Harry's plan B watches him from the top of the pile, poised and elegant as he poses for the _Prophet's _photographers._ Lucius Malfoy. _Pureblood aristocrat, loving father, well-known philanthropist; the wizarding world's most popular daily newspaper is full of articles praising his generosity, his dedication to redeeming himself and making up for the shame of being caught under the thrall of a Death Eater's Imperius.

If Albus Dumbledore isn't willing to help, perhaps Lucius Malfoy will be. It's worth a try, because giving up isn't an option. For Harry, it never is. _Blind stubbornness,_ his mother had called it once. _Your father was exactly the same. _She hadn't meant to say that. One more clue to add to the puzzle.

He has been composing this letter in his head for weeks, _just in case, _so when he slides into his chair and pulls a sheet of parchment towards him he knows exactly what he wants to write. Despite that, he finds it surprisingly difficult to force the words out. It has to be perfect, he knows, it has to be just right. Persuasive. Tidy. Believable. He doesn't know what he'll do if Mr Malfoy assumes it's a joke and discards it.

Eventually, though, he finishes the letter, and when he can't find anything else he can change for the better he rolls it into a scroll, tied with a string he fishes out from somewhere in his bottom drawer. It sits there, innocuous, ready for him to take to the Owl Office first thing the next morning.

When he says good night to Lily he considers telling her, but the words catch in his throat and he goes to bed without saying anything. If it works, he'll tell her then, Harry decides. No need to burden her with the knowledge if it doesn't. She has enough to worry about.

Before long he feels the soft press of her lips against his hair and the gentle breath of her hand smoothing the unruly strands away from his eyes. The scent of jasmine and willow bark lingers in the warm air long after she leaves, and it comforts him as he stares, sleepless, at the ceiling.

And hopes.

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><p><strong>What did you think? Please review and let me know :) Would you like to see it continued?<strong>


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